


Seasons

by will_o_whisper



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-21
Updated: 2011-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-18 11:25:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/will_o_whisper/pseuds/will_o_whisper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merrill has her ways of coping with homesickness and spring in Kirkwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seasons

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a promptfest over at dragon_age on livejournal as a response to the prompt 'spring.' Implied spoilers for certain events in Act 2, but nothing too revealing.

Merrill missed the spring. Not that it didn’t come, of course, but in Kirkwall, where everything was made of stone and chain, one could hardly tell when one season passed to the next. There were no little green buds peeking through the dead leaves on the forest floor, no birds singing to the bright sun dancing through the tree branches.

There was no life.

On the days when the splintered walls and lingering stench of her Alienage home became too oppressive to bear Merrill padded barefoot up cobbled streets to Hightown and made her way to Hawke’s manor. If Hawke was away she snuck down the back alleys Isabela had shown her, and scurried over the walls and into Hawke’s garden. It was small, as limited space demanded, and a bit wild; Alexander Hawke had no talent with plants, and without Leandra to tend the little patch of green it was largely left to the mercy of weeds and weather. Merrill preferred it that way.

She passed the day pulling the weeds that threatened to choke the more delicate flowers, while leaving the rest. She dug up and potted some of the herbs that had begun to sprout, and took cuttings of others for herself and Anders. She nibbled on berries from the bush that had slowly come to dominate the western half of the garden. During midday, when the sun stood high in the sky, reaching over even the towering Hightown mansions, Merrill curled under a tree and dozed, while sunbeams played across her face. She dreamed of creaking aravels and braying halla, of warm wet soil and musky rotting leaves. Most times she woke in tears.

She always left before Hawke returned, not because she thought he would be angry but because she knew that he would not. By Merrill’s declarations they weren’t exactly friends; she did not want, did not want to believe she wanted, his understanding.

But she missed her home, and she could think of no other way to cling to it.


End file.
